


Basically Richie Tozier Angst

by QuinsQuins



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT- Stephen King
Genre: :O, Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Animal Transformation, Asshole Eddie Kaspbrak, Bullying, Character Death, Drinking, Eddie has self esteem issues, Fluffy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insecurities, Kinda, Loneliness, Mike needs a hug, Murder, Poems of love, Richie centric, Self Esteem Issues, Soft Richie Tozier, The turtle is not a smart cookie, Weight Issues, a bunch of unfinished writing I don’t know what to do with, cute but weird, idk - Freeform, it’s actually, more tags to come, pennywise and the turtle are not brothers or related, richie is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21523471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuinsQuins/pseuds/QuinsQuins
Summary: Bunch of unfinished writing that I don’t know what to do with*please take note that I love all the losers in their own way and that these short angst writings are spouted from my own deep insecurities and random shower thoughts, thank you :)*
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier/Eddie Kasprak, the losers club/the losers club, they are all shipped with eachother tho
Comments: 5
Kudos: 70





	1. He dreams of life

**Author's Note:**

> Writing mistakes are all by me  
> Sorry!

Richie often thought about how life would of been like had the Losers not split up- if they’d all left Derry together to attend whatever college they wanted and live in whatever state they liked. Maybe they would of all gotten a house together- lived with each other- and designed it together.  
Maybe they’d get a dog- or not- Eddie’s allergic to dogs.  
They’d definitely get a pool, though. One big enough for all of them to swim in it together without upsetting the water so much- as to send it splashing on the pavement- or constantly bumping into each other. And after they’d be done swimming, Ben or Mike (the only good cooks of the seven) would fire up the grill and create something.....something delicious.

The others would set the table and help out by making refreshments, cutting vegetables to set out, and covering them so they don’t get bombarded by flies. Beverly and Eddie would get the plates and napkins while Richie and Bill the knifes and forks. Stan would come back and fourth from the kitchen with whatever utensil or seasoning Mike, or Ben, asked for. Chatting with them while they cooked and listening to the others bicker about if the knife should be outside the fork or inside, eyeing them occasionally out of the corner of his eye.

Stan would probably deny finding it funny in any sort of way at dinner and would definitely toss empty threats and insults at them when they found it cute. Giving Richie a dirty glare when he’d throw the other a kiss.  
After eating the delicious food and just enjoying the others company, they would all clean up. Beverly and Bill would take any dirty dishes to the sink, where Eddie and Mike would wash and dry them in a conveyor belt type of fashion, and then go back out onto their screen porch to collect any trash or utensils left behind. And once that was done, they’d go force Mike to relax on the couch while they finished with the rest of dirty dishes. 

‘You cook, we clean.’

Richie would help Ben clean and put away the grill- scrubbing it harshly with an old brush to rid it of the hardened crust and grease. He imagined he would sometimes have a hard time scrubbing away at one particular part of the grill- possibly the right corner- and angrily hit it with the brush. Ben would try to hop in and help, more worried that he’d break the grill than anything else, but Richie would be stubborn, and tell him no- giving the same ‘excuse’ the others gave Mike.

‘You cook, I clean. It’s just how the rules work, Baby.’

Richie imagines Ben would smile at him and sit in a nearby chair to watch him work and casually talk about his day. Richie would listen to every word, sometimes throwing in a comment or two, but remained mostly quite- continuously scrubbing the grill until it was clean as it had been that morning.  
He’d let Ben help him put the grill up in their out door shed, as it would be heavy as shit and Richie is just a noodle with a pea stuck in his middle.

After cleaning, he thinks Eddie would force them all to take a shower before settling in for the night. 

They’d all seperate into pairs and go to each ones shared bathrooms to clean. Ben with Bev, respectively. Mike with Stan, or Mike with Eddie if they decided to. Richie with Eddie and Bill, or Richie with Stan and Bill if Eddie chose to shower with Mike that day.  
Either way, they’d all take their time to clean themselves and feel each other closely for the first time in a few days- all hungry and needy for the others naked skin and pulsing veins. 

Maybe they’d take a little longer than an hour to....’get refreshed’...and, maybe, they would all know what the others did and share shy smiles and red faces. Prodding and teasing the others just for reaction to giggle about but, in the end, they all shared the same naughty secret.

Richie thinks about them having a movie night.  
All snuggled up together under a fortress of pillows and blankets, faces illuminated by which ever movie they’d all fought over to watch. A big, blue, bowl of popcorn situated between them all to share; their fingers covered in butter and pieces of popcorn kernels stuck between their teeth.

He dreams that they all get settled together. His right arm would be wrapped around Stan -resting snugly on the opposite shoulder- while Eddie sits happily in his lap, a wool blanket pulled up to his chin. Ben and Beverly would be snuggled together on Richies left side- Bev’s Back against his side. Ben’s right arm would be wrapped around Beverly’s back and hand wedged between her and the curly haired mans shoulder. Richies other hand would be tangled with Beverly’s right, and her left hand playing with Bill’s hair while he tries to find a comfortable position on her thighs. 

Richie imagines Ben would smile and connect his left hand with Bill’s left and give it a loving squeeze. 

Mike would be on the opposite end of this- his head resting comfortably on Stan’s shoulder, as well Richies hand, with a faint grin on his tired face. 

They’d all watch the movie in a comfortable silence- only being broken by Richie once in a while to make some crude joke before someone silenced him- until one of them would claim to be ready for bed and the tv’s volume would be lowered to a slight humming background noise.

They’d probably sit in a calm silence until their eyes would go sleepy- as the movie became their last concern- and they would all fall asleep in a pile of hand holding and twisted legs.

The last person to fall asleep would probably be Richie himself. He would stay awake just to look at their soft expressions and wonder how beautiful they each all looked when the pressures of the day, and just life in general, was lifted from their shoulders.  
He would lightly kiss Eddie’s head- making sure to hold back a giggle at the tickling sensation on his chin from the shorter mans overly conditioned hair. Richie would softly stroke Mike’s cheek with numb fingers that had lost feeing a long time ago- having been wedged between Mike’s head and Stan’s shoulder for so long- but he didn’t care.  
Richie thinks he’d give the same head kiss he did to Eddie to Stan and Beverly. Savouring the smell of both persons fruity shampoo that just made his stomach flip lovingly.  
With Ben and Bill out of his reach, he’d simply wait- impatiently-until the morning came to give them both a slight caress of the cheek or head kiss. He would hate having to wait that long- sitting in agonising dreamless sleep for the morning sun to rise- but, it would be worth it to see them blink the sleepy haze from their eyes just to receive a kiss, unexpectedly.

Being the last one awake, he’d turn off the tv.

Richie guesses they wouldn’t wake up early on a lazy weekend morning- not until late in the afternoon, all too tried and drowsy to escape the warm snuggle pile on a cold November day and-......and..

That’s as far as Richie is willingly letting his dreams go- as far as he is deeming ‘enough’ to ‘satisfy’ his heart. 

He does this to restrict himself from something that would never be and...would probably never be accepted. 

To protect his sanity, and feelings, from the disappointment of a thing that could of been had they just stayed at the hip.

He is willing to dream of happiness at his fingers tips, but, to live it fully with details he’d never pick up on had it actually happened is something else entirely.  
Something Richie knows is unhealthy and wrong- a thing that’s plagued him since his childhood, lingered with him through his years away, and only just recently come back to rear its ugly head. Richie knows it’s bad....but he doesn’t care.

And maybe he never will.


	2. Out of insecure fire pits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be some weird trip dream Richie had in the deadlights but- it mostly turned into a ‘vent’ about about my insecurities :( so, I just left it as it was.
> 
> It’s very random and weird- especially not canon !!!!
> 
> All spelling mistakes are mine.

They’d all came back from the Neibolt house in one piece. Eddie still had the hole in his face- which he loudly complained to the others needed immediate medial attention the whole time they were at the quarry- but, it was better than being dead.

(And he had seen him dead.)

Richie just laughed and put Eddie in a head lock- pulling him under water shortly after.

He’d probably never forget the look of horror on Eddie’s face when they resurfaced. Spitting out water and sputtering angrily like a toddler. Every cuss word known to man flew from Eddie’s wordy mouth that- at one point- Richie went to plug his ears, his own laugher being muffled along with Eddie’s ‘scolding me.   
The other Losers just watched Eddie rail away on the poor comedian with tears of laughter in their eyes.   
Beverly used Ben as a support when the laughing began to split her sides and she was left breathless. Mike and Bill had fallen against each other in their own fit and we’re struggling to stay up right as one would slip a little on the mud and send the other one falling backwards. Stan sat at the rocky shore and watched it all with slight amusement. He captured everyone’s faces with one look and felt his heart only swell more.   
When his frosty grey eyes got caught in Richies murky blue ones, he smiled, genuinely, and gave a small wave.

And Richie only smiled back.

Day turned into a creamy pink and yellow sun set afternoon before all Losers had joined Stan on the bank to dry off. 

It was fucking freezing. But no one was aloud in Ben’s car until all parts- or most parts- were dry.

‘So you’re saying we’re supposed to freeze our asses off to avoid getting your ‘poor car’ dirty?’

‘You could always just walk back to the townhouse, Y’know? You’d probably be dry by the time you arrived anyways.’

‘Ha, that’s a great joke, handsome. I haven’t walked a mile since college- and I dropped out of college when I turned 23. I’d be dead before I even made it up the damn hill.’

The other losers laughed at Richie’s jokes- they always laughed- but this particular joke- even if it wasn’t ghost written- had Richie feeling more queasy than most self deprecating jokes he’s made. 

But he smiled and laughed.

They decided to take that time to catch up on things- get back to what the others had been up to before they’d been so rudely interrupted by those stupid fortune cookies.

Richie swears he’ll never be able to look at them again- let alone eat anything remotely close to Chinese again....and Eddie bets he’ll ‘start eating Chinese food again in a week, with the way his diet is.’ 

The germaphobe said this while poking at Richies soft middle, teasingly.

Richie slapped Eddie’s hand away and covered his stomach in a flash- almost missing the way each loser looked at him in confusion, maybe a little worry, as he slightly curled in on himself.  
Eddie’s eyes flashed in concern. He cautiously leaned in closer to the curly haired male with hesitance.

He placed a hand on Richie’s shoulder and then, when he felt it was safe enough, bombarded him with questions.’Hey man, ‘Chee? Are you okay? Did something happen to your stomach? Does it hurt? Do you think somethings bruised? Do you need a hospital?’

Richie felt his cheeks burn at the un-needed attention- the feel of twelve familiar eyes burning into the side of his face. He shrugged Eddie’s hand off his shoulder and casually leaned back on his hands, legs crossed over each other.

‘Take a chill pill, Eddie Spaghetti! Im fine! You just scared me, is all, you know how sensitive I am, don’t you, Eds?’ Richie replied back charmingly, hiding his relief with a big smile when Eddie’s shoulders relaxed and face went slack.   
The shorter male crossed his arms and smirked slightly.

‘Beep beep, Richie. The only thing sensitive about you is your ego- and by that, I mean you have the insecurities of a teenage girl trying to get on the cheer squad but was denied cause of her weight.’ Eddie snarked.

Richie heard the others collectively gasp in shock, like they couldn’t believe what Eddie just said, and he felt slightly better about the hurt pooling in the bottom of his gut, but the spirts of laughter that followed after had Richie thinking otherwise. He lowered his head and focused on a pair of ants climbing over and in the crevasses of rocks beneath his feet.

The losers still laughed.

If Had he turned around he would of seen that Ben was the only one not laughing.

Eddie smirked down at Richie with triumph, almost proud that we was finally able to finally silence the Trashmouth, and drank in the other losers comments with pride.

‘Woah, Eddie!’

‘Kaspbrak the, snap back!’

‘Damn Eddie, Tell him how you really feel, why don’t ya?’

‘.....’

‘That wasn’t funny, Eddie.’

The last comment, Ben’s, quieted the group. Richie didn’t raise his head, but the small glance get got of Ben’s face made his stomach clench.   
He had almost forgot the quiet boy had been hefty once- with how hot he looks now, not anyone outside of Derry could of ever guessed he was once a softie....but they knew...

Eddie’s smile faded and his confident stance deflated. He spoke up first.

‘I’m sorry, Ben. You’re right, that wasn’t funny- I wasn’t thinking.’ The Risk analyst eyes pleading silently for to Ben to forgive him for his stupid comments.

The other just stared right back at him with a blank expression. His hard brown eyes darted back and fourth from Eddie to Richies tightly coiled form.

Eddie took this as.’Im not the one you should be apologising to.’ And sighed softly.  
He awkwardly shifted his knees on the rocky ground to face Richie. Lips pulled tightly into a thin line.

‘Richie?’ 

Said person the name belonged to raised his head from the two ants below- one had gotten caught in a puddle of water from his soaked pants and died- to look at Eddie behind glasses that still seemed a little too big for his face.  
Eddie pretended his heart didn’t skip a beat and eased himself closer to his friend.

‘I’m sorry for making fun of you, it was totally uncalled for and immature- I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me...?’ Eddie finished his apology with a quirked brow and soft eyes. Richie could still feel the sting of Eddie’s bony finger burning the skin on his gut- just an inch above his belly button. He shifted onto his front, facing Eddie with a small smile.

‘It’s all okie dokie, spheds! You got off a good one, didn’t you? Really made my poor teenage girl heart quiver!’ Richie joked with a fake, sad, wiggle of his bottom lip.   
Eddie sighed in annoyance- he’s been doing that lot, lately- and wrinkled his nose.

‘Jesus fucking Christ, Richie, can you not be serious for five seconds?’ 

Eddie quickly poked his stomach again and, maybe it was a tinge softer than before but, the burning on his skin was still there.

The comedian chose to ignore his insecurity this time to throw a handful of mud at Eddie’s face- the good side- with a resounding, wet, smack!   
Richie stood up, dusted off his pants and started his trek back up the cliff.  
A third of the way up- he was joined by a silent, but comforting, Stan and a red faced Ben.

They walked up the rest of trail in silence. Richie too focused on keeping his breathing quite- as to not show that we was actually winded by the walk- that he didn’t really know what to say without having to take a deep, disgusting, breathe. He settled on keeping his breathes short and slow.   
Ben cupped a hand to the small of his back and, Richie knew, that meant he’d been there before.

Richie felt a little bit better and smiled as the sun slowly began to set behind the autumn trees.  
The other losers slowly gathered with Ben, Stan and Richie- all silent, but-strangely- content.They strolled by the old shop’s window- pretending not to see the reflection of soft skin and bright eyes instead of their scars and eye bags- and headed towards the townhouse, confidence in each of their uneven steps.

They all left the quarry that day with sore bellies and new memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!! 
> 
> Leave a comment it you want too! If you like these little snippets enough I’ll try and use them to create a full plot!!


	3. Do you even love me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This basically could be a sequel to the last chapter but, idk.
> 
> It’s another random one about insecurities plus relashionship issues 
> 
> Hope you like it though :)

Eddie raised a hand to softly cascade his boney fingers through the comedians new close cut hair. His slight frown deepened and eyes narrowed, staring pointedly at Richie’s exposed forehead.

‘I liked it better longer.’ 

Eddie retreated his hand from Richies head and blinked once before turning around and heading towards the kitchen to- making sure that when Richie wasn’t looking- throw out the ‘unhealthy’ ‘disgusting’ dinner the comedian had prepared for the losers, minus him, all to eat....and instead prepare his own, and some for the losers, while Richie left for work.

Richie knew Eddie didn’t do it to hurt his feelings- if he had, the risk analysis would of flat out told him by now- but he only did it once Richie left for work. 

Richie only found out about it because Eddie never got rid of the evidence. He’d come home from work, thinking that the food he prepared had been eaten- Eddie would give him a tight smile and kiss his cheek, then they’d go to bed- but the health nut never counted on the fact that trash would still be there once Richie got home.   
Leaving the tired, stressed, male to find the dinner he put together for them- his lovers, the losers- in the trash and Eddie’s amazing macaroni and broccoli casserole sitting on one of the refrigerators shelves as left overs.  
A simple white sticky note attacked to it with Richie’s name scrawled on it in Eddie’s neat hand writing.

(Richie hated Eddie’s casserole...and he was sure his friend knew that...)

The comedian threw ‘his’ left over cassaorle In the trash, on top of the the dinner he had prepared earlier, and disposed of the bag. 

He discarded his smelly shirt and traded it in for a much clearer, red, shirt.

Richie wasted a few good hours in the down stairs bathroom- the one basically no one ever used and was the farthest away from their shared rooms, throwing up.(But there was nothing TO throw up. All that came Lue hung out of his stomach was yellow, acid tasting, bile. And, because it tasted so rancid, Richie only threw up more.)

Richei flushed the toilet a total of three times before collapsing against the bath tub and crying his sore eyes out till the moons yellow light covered the white bath room tiles.

He shakily stood up- avoiding looking at his reflection in the mirror by removing his glasses- and washed his puke covered chin off.   
He flushed the toilet- one last time- and wiped its seat of any left over breakfast from yesterday and headed to his room.

Richie found all the others squished together in one of the two big beds.  
There was no room for him to sleep and- even if he just shoved himself in between someone- he’s probably wake them up and that’s an asshole move.  
Richie carefully closed the bed room door and headed to the other one- that was left of the bed- and entered the other bedroom. He closed that door and sorta just stood there Looking at it- studying its tricky cuts and figure- before turning around and promptly going to bed.

He did not dream that night.

~~~

When the morning came- Richie looked over to the beside clock to see that it was already 10 o’clock in the morning yet- he could smell the strong aroma of bacon and eggs being cooked down stairs.

Usually- when Richie slept in, someone would either climb in bed with him or wake him up. 

(Not either of those happed and Richie felt his heart stretch.)

He could hear voices downstairs laughing and joking around...

(Without him.)

Richie promptly got out of bed and threw up in the waste basket beside the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that snip, and if you want more like that, just leave a comment!
> 
> Bye!


	4. A turtle is but a turtle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was supposed to be the opening to ‘Richie Tozier Fucking Dies....I Think?’ But i decided on something else- hopefully better- but here you go.
> 
> Hope you like it!!

When the turtle created humans he chose to make each one specifically, and uniquely, different. From their hair, to skin, to likes, to dislikes- not one human was the same.(Except, maybe twins- but they were a result of laziness on the Turtles behalf.) And not one human could fully and truthfully agree on every matter with another one.(The turtle had tried, at first, that every human not have the same interests to share but, that got ugly pretty quick.) 

How he made the humans? Well, he’d take- more like steal, but who cares- a bit of soil from the earth, water from the ocean and dust from the nearest star and mix them all up on a canvas with, which ever, color that day and paint. 

(It was simple, really.)

The turtle created two humans on his first day- female and male.   
Their skin was a healthy, peach, white and eyes as shinny brown as their hair. They were supposed to be brother and sister, but the turtle got to thinking- How can He create more of these creatures without stealing the universes gifts?   
So, he just created them with different piles of star dust- Thus making the first lovers to ever walk the earth.

And, after a while, he began to experiment with color- making them darker, or more lighter or more yellow as time passed.

(The turtle created many different looking human beings- each with a unique color to them but, he did encounter trouble along the way.)

He found dark colours a little bit harder to perfect. If he added too much yellow to a mix of red and blue, it could turn a muddy orange, or, if he added a bit too much red to a mix of yellow and blue, it would turn purple- and purple and orange might be a bit TOO different from the majority- natural- colours of simple black, brown, white....another shade of white, white and brown, black and brown....white and black...(You get the picture.) 

But the turtle loved all the colours he made- no matter how long it took to perfect or how many colours he had to go through to get it- he was content.

(Until, his creations began to die.)

Death. It was an occurrence the turtle had not counted on when making his people- he had created them so beautiful and so ‘perfect’ that, surly, they’d posses god gifts like him? Yes?

(Maybe so...possibly not.)

The turtle grieved, but he grieved In his art.

He made bad people. Ones who murdered, lied and cheated. He created mental sickness, disease and disasters. The turtle gave his beautiful people disfigurements, pain and near death...even actual death.  
The turtle scared his people...into fearing death, fearing adventure. He wished them to live forever and what better way to do that...than to make them fear everything? 

He sees the way they act around danger- they run, they hide...they survive. And that makes the turtle happy, but a select few run towards danger...and sometimes, he pities them and lets them live...but..he also is tired of the resistance- resistance to comply, to be safe- and he lets nature take its course.

The turtle is a ruthless ruler of his new breed of people- and that’s how he stays for the first 27 years...until, 

One random spot of black paint gets covered in red and white and...the turtle has created a monster..one with fiery red hair and ruby lips. With eyes so yellow they shine at night....and teeth so sharp they make your spine shiver just looking at them.   
The monster ate whoever and whatever got in it’s path- it tortured people with their greatest fears or weaknesses. It manipulated them, changed them and hurt them.

And all this happened in the- once- sweet town of Derry, Maine. (The only place on earth that the turtle could call his lovely ‘summer’ home...)

Now, it was anything BUT lovely.

The turtle had created the eater of worlds....and it was about to eat his whole world up with just a single bite.

He absolutely had to find a way to stop it.(Throwing disease, disfigurements or mental illness didn’t stop the monster the slightest...it made his stronger.) The turtle needed a plan- and he needed one quick.

So, he grabbed his canvas and began to paint.

He painted with passion- pain- anger and confidence. The turtle created a group of heroes- well, heroes is a stretch- that would rise up and defeat the monster. He created them uniquely- as every other human was- and he created them imperfect. 

They were not all smart, not all tall or skinny, not happy or quite. The turtle created them imperfect, the turtle made them all weak in their own way..and the only way they could be strong together was if...they were together.

(How sentimental.)

The turtle created seven imperfect humans to help save his people- all weak and strong in different ways- and he made sure that their place in his world would have more meaning than that.

He gave them each two purposes in life.

1\. To defeat the monster and  
2\. To find their own path 

Two simple chores- on paper, that is- for his band of misfits to look forward to.

The turtle sighed and drifted off to sleep in his blanket of white- he had been working had, what’s the harm of a little nap?-....completely aware that the paint brush between his fingers would slip and stain one of his paintings on the canvas a deep red....

The paintings path doomed to death with just that simple- forever stained- red splotch across the middle...he had three purposes in life, now. 

To defeat..To live....to die.

(He had black hair and the kids called him Bucky Beaver.He was as confident as he was smart...and he was funny as he was loving.)

The painting would die....

But the turtle only snored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Leave a comment if you want! Or maybe a short clip of whatever you’d like continued! 
> 
> (I mostly do angst and hurt. I also do this weird Stephen King thing where I add random details that don’t belong but, eh.)


	5. Welcome back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ?SUICIDE WARNING!
> 
> Richie basically drinks and talks to himself for almost a whole day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruh- idk what this is, but, I hope you like it.

Richie doesn’t realise anything’s wrong, even after he’s hit with a sudden dizzy spell- making his vision go cross- and a headache that pounds against his forehead so intensely it feels like his eye balls are about to fall out- before it’s too late. 

(Stupid, stupid.)

He had been drinking prior to the incident, after all. 

‘And who’s fault is that?’

(You have no room to talk, Mr ‘you fucking need another drink!’)

What was he supposed to believe was wrong? Maybe, after not drinking for a while, he’d lost his tolerance? Possibly...it would of been the most normal answer...but not correct.

‘Why did you even listen to me in the first place?’

(I-....you know, I don’t know, to be honest. I don’t even know who- or what- your are...so-)

‘That’s pretty stupid of you.’

(Yeah, yeah it was....I regret it.)

He’s sitting at the townhouse bar, the other Losers standing around him- not hovering, but, close enough to be ‘slightly’ uncomfortable- when it happens...

Richie brings the last- because Bill had cut him off for the night- glass of bourbon to his lips. Pursing them to sip the brown liquid, his cheeks flushed pink, and Adam’s apple bobbing with each sip.  
He feels two sets of eyes watching him- mainly burning at his nose and throat- and Richie has no doubt that, if he were to turn around, Eddie and Stan would be acting, maybe, a bit too casual.

(But what was the harm in that?)

Richie smirked in his glass- the last few drops of liquid burning on his lips, before he licked them clean- and raised an unseen brown. Why not give them a show? 

He swallowed one last time- nothing left in his cup- just for the heck of it, and set the glass down firmly onto the counter. Hiding his wince at the loud clang it made while, also, swivelling around to face the other losers. Lips parted in a slight frown- just to match the awkward, tense, atmosphere around him- that showed the tips of his two front teeth.

And, just as he expected, the two men he theorised watching him were casually- a bit too casual, he might add- facing away from him. Eyes looking everywhere but at each other, Richie or the rest of the losers. Their faces were scrunched up in thought- maybe anger or fear, is what he would of guessed- but, his glasses didn’t only catch things from close up. Things the other Losers might of not even noticed- things like the light pink blush dusting over Stan’s cheeks, or the twitching of Eddie’s right pinkie patting his jean clad thigh, something he only did when he was nervous, with light ‘thumps.’

Richie licked his lips, leaned back on the bar counter, and tried not to snicker when Mike cut off his rambling to stare at the hypochondriac’s non-stop ticking.

‘Thump.....thump...thump...’

‘We need to-....Eddie, are you okay?’

‘Thump....thump..thu-‘

‘....’

The silence stretched out- painfully thin- as all losers turned to stare at him. Their eyes frozen on the two men with wide pupil’s. Richie signed and rubbed a hand over his face. It was like watching one of those ‘silent’ films. No one spoke for many minutes- they swayed on their feet and twisted their faces into many emotions; pursing their lips, squinting their eyes, flaring their noses, but did not speak.

(it was all....very distrustful...)

Plus- Richie gazed- it was not nice to stare....but, the losers knew that. 

They didn’t do it out of noisey-ness, or drama, but more of Interest and yearning to be involved- to be aware- of every possibly conversation...but, in this situation, it was not to be comforting, nor, helpful- no- they did it to study, survive, the clown influence. To know how it makes them feel, how it poisons them with fear and runs their brains wild.  
How IT would win.

Richie rolled his eyes at the- what he absolutely KNEW was the- longest silence known to man. A very long, boring, silence, at that.

(If the whole time they’re here is just going to be full of awkward, stupid, silences then-I might as well just leave now.) 

‘But you would die.’ The voice in the back of his head spoke, echoing around his brain, while pushing behind his forehead.  
Leaving a sudden, cold like, pressure behind.

Richie rolled his eyes- wincing.

(Oh- fucking great. I’ve not spent, maybe, an hour in this god forsaken town and I’ve already got a bug- fucking wonderful- absolutely delightful.)

‘Don’t Tell Eddie...’

....

(I won’t.)

Eddie and Mike were still starting at each other- still quiet- and Stan was now looking at the dead fire place just to the right of them, facing away from Richie.

(Speaking of fire- it’s fucking cold as shit, where are the workers here? Should they not be keeping the fire going?...or maybe invest in a heater? Something?....maybe its gas powered?)

‘See for yourself.’

Richie sniffed and wiped at the bottom of his nose with his pointer finger. Arms shaking- because he’s weak as fuck- he pushed himself up off the stool to look passed the Losers- mostly Mike’s- shoulders to stare at the fire place entrance.

He grumbled, tsking in annoyance, and lowered himself back down onto the stool with a huff.  
Ben watched him, unhinged.  
Richie was too invested in his pounding forehead and sore arms- seriously, he’s weak as fuck- to care.

(No gas switch...huh, just my luck..)

If the clown doesn’t kill him now, pneumonia might bet IT to him.

‘But, if you survive, you’ll have a good story to tell.’

He doesn’t write his own material- all the losers knew that- and his manager probably wouldn’t let him write his own material, anytime soon, after that stunt he pulled at the last show. 

(I Fucking bombed it.)

‘Yes, yes- In fact- you did.’

Richie scrunched up his nose with a deep, cartoonish, frown. He sometimes hated listening to himself think- it went everywhere but where he wanted his mind to go- and that’s why he speaks so much, to escape his frantic thoughts and stupid paranoia. 

(Maybe I need a therapist.)

‘You definitely need something, maybe Xanax or a life partner- first- therapy later.’

Bill coughed. The silence broken.

Richie looked up at them all, vision blurring- even with his glasses on- slightly from the drinks and rested his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow digging uncontrollably into his thigh- pinching it. 

(Looks like the shows about to begin.)

‘You need another drink for this.’

He sighed, and Stan flinched at the soft exhale.

The empty bottle of alcohol sat behind him like a stalking crow. It’s shadow burning into his back- reminding him of regrettable and witless instances in the past when he was not ‘in a sober state of mind’. 

‘Stop thinking of it, then, idiot.’

The bottle was like the clown- haunting and edging closer from the back of his mind to the pressure building behind his eyes.

But, right now, Richie couldn’t help but agree with his subconscious.

The unopened bottle of whisky Bill had yanked out his grasp, just minutes after Richie had taken his last drink, sat behind the author’s hip on a small desk. A glass, teal, flower vase- with dead flowers In it- reflecting the backwards whisky brand at him like a haunting ghost in the after shower, foggy, mirror of a crappy 90’s film.  
Bill shifted and the drink disappeared behind his ugly, plaid, covered torso.

(He really needs a wardrobe change.)

‘Fucking rip it off of him. Do it. Fucking do it!’

A drip of sweat- cold and acidic- got caught in the crease of his forehead wrinkle. Richie waited with confining breath as the drip sat in the crease, antagonizingly longer than necessary, before the smooth surface broke and proceeded to glide straight down into his eye.  
It fucking stung- the salt- making his already blurred vision go cloudy with a stinging, disgusting, pinch.

Richie’s eye flickered, tears lining his water line to drain the unwanted substance out, and the smile lines at the corners of his eyes began to appear stretched and shaded. 

(Fucking fucking fuck fuck!)

‘Just wipe it out, calm down.’

His palms were sweaty- stinking of salt and more pain. He aggressively wiped his right hand on his jeans- stale smelling from the air plane ride- and swiped the tip of his pointer finger behind his glasses. Effectively ridding his eye ball of the excess water and irritation.

Bev, her skinny arms crossed over her chest, quirked a brow. Richie stared back at her with little interest, shrugging his shoulders.

(What?)

‘Fucking bitch is looking at you, tell her to Fuck off.’

Richie flared his nostrils, snorting, and smirked. Looking as charming as he was when he’d lie to Ms.Kasbrack about being in her sons room late at night. 

It was convincing.

Bev rolled her eyes- classic Trashmouth behaviour- and pursed her lips to look off at the Losers- Mike and Eddie- who were still locked in a silent stare off. 

Mike, with arms crossed and brow raised, stared at Eddie with worry- concern. His lips twitched in anticipation. He did not speak, but, rather, waited persistently for the other male to go first.  
The other male, Eddie, who’s lips were clasped so tight they blended in with the normal color of his skin- pale and blotchy- did not speak either.  
Eddie’s brows were crumpled into deep lines, bridge of his brow line, casting a deep shadow over two hollow brown eyes.Nostrils splayed.

(If he keeps his face like that- it just might stay that way.)

‘You would like that, wouldn’t you?’

Richie coughed through his laugh. The losers paid no mind.

(Haha, Thats fucking funny, jackass. Nice one.)

‘I try my best.’

Richie blinked. Then, while clicking his teeth together, turned his thoughts back to his friends. He scratched at his chin. The rough stubble beneath his finger tips was prickling- there was a fucking cactus on his face. Fucking ew.

Bill coughed, again, and Richie was then reminded of the whisky behind him.

(I desperately need that drink...They’ve been going at it, though, huh? It’s been like twelve fucking minutes.) 

‘Technically, it’s only been three. Time passes slowly when you’re stressed.’

(O’really?)

‘Si, senior.’

(Whatever you- you fucking smartass.)

The tension between them was chilly- and not like ‘this fucking building needs a working gas fire pit, or heater’ chilly, nah, more like a ‘holy fuck this Chili is really hot and spicy, it’s like boiling salt in my stomach’ chilly. 

Fucking hot pasta sauce feel, you know? 

Eddie clenched his fist (Richie needs that drink, and he needs it now, if he’s even thinking in getting through all this.)- not in anger but, possibly, embarrassment- and forced himself to face Mike. Cheeks beginning to burn with invisible blush at the blur of Richie’s rat nest hair in the corner of his vision.

He gave an awkward laugh and crossed his arms. Thin lips finally regaining their pinkish color as he opened his mouth.”Yeah- yeah, Mike, I’m just swell! It’s not like I just remembered my childhood was overshadowed by a fucking demon-clown that, apparently, we DIDN’T kill and DIDN’T remember for twenty-seven years! No! I’m totally fucking fine!” Eddie rambled, hysteria setting in as thin, red, spidery vines shot out from behind his eyelids. The wrinkles on his forehead- and the dimples on his cheeks- deepening as his panicked smile grew with each word.

Richie watched in silence- mostly because he felt Eddie’s fear, they all did, and just wanted him to have his moment- as Mike’s shoulders physically deflated at Eddie’s rant. 

(Kinda harsh words, coming from spaghetti man, no?)

‘Not really, no.’

(You really do not have any sympathy, do you?’

‘More like I have no empathy- but, yes.’

(Whatever. Same difference.)

Beverly goes to scold Eddie- her pointer finger raised strictly and lips parted to show two canines- but, before she can get a word out, Mike cuts her off.

“ Meet me back here in fifteen minutes- not a minute after- fifteen. Make sure to wear good shoes and a coat. We’re taking a hike.” His voice was strict, cold- not at all like the soft spoken voice Richie had heard all those years ago. It was sort of refreshing.  
No one spoke. Mike stiffly nodded at all the other losers- his gaze gliding over Richie like smooth marble- before turning on his heel, exiting the townhouse with no hesitance.

His shoulders tense.

‘And then there were six.’

Richie quirked his lips, huffing as he twisted himself around to face the bar.

(I should give him a pat on the back for finally putting his foot down- he was never that ‘confident’ as a child....good for I’m.)

‘He’s definitely a top.’

(.....I fucking hate you.)

‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger- I was just saying what you were thinking.’

(Again, I fucking hate you.) 

Bill follows after mike. His big boots shaking the old townhouse wood like a strong, thunderous storm. The glass vase, no longer shielded by Bill’s rectangular torso, reflects off the lens of Richie’s lasses.  
And it stays that way- no one walks in front of it.

(Jesus- it’s like god himself just parted the Red Sea.)

‘Go get ‘em champ, you’ve earned it.’

(Oh boy! What a treat! Thanks, dad!)

‘I will fucking kill you.’

Richie makes a beeline for the unopened whisky, unclean glass in hand, and chooses to ignore the judging looks from the other losers with mocked excitement.  
He twists off the cap- chucking in somewhere over his shoulder, Richie’s shoulders shake at the sound of Stans annoyed scoff- and tips over half the amount of whiskey recommended. 

It’s lightly tinted pink- which, if the bottle wants labeled cherry, should of been the first warning- and smells like if your open wound, bubbling with hydrogen peroxide, was liquidated...eh. 

It’s fine.

Richie sets the bottle down- his vision starts to cross. He hesitates bringing the whiskey to his mouth, and swallows thickly.

(Maybe I shouldn’t....)

‘Oh, trust me, you should! You’re not gonna be able to make it those lonely 15 minutes without a little liquid courage- go on! Don’t be a pussy!’

Richie scowled, lips widening into a frown that made his nose up. He cleared his throat and gripped the glass.

(Shut the fuck up....I’m not a pussy.)

The glass leaves the desk with a slight scrape- pressure builds behind his eyes- and slowly grows closer to his lips.

He feels eyes watching him, again. Familiar ones....possibly, a misty grey blue...and, a soft, worried, brown. Burning bright at the side of his throat- his Adam’s apple.

‘Forget them- drink.’

The cool glass blinks against Richie’s front teeth- fucking ow- but he can’t feel it over the intense pinching behind his eyes or the way his vision keeps crossing...and crossing...

He sniffs.

(Smells like ass and cherries.)

‘Bottoms up.’

Richie tips the drink, static buzzing loudly in his head.

The clear alcohol touches the tip of his tongue- and Richie’s world goes black. 

~~~

‘ Who the fuck drinks cherry whiskey? Especially in a fucking creepy old hotel? Fucking idiot- this should of NOT been this easy...’

‘Oh well...time to get to work.’

~~~

Richie wakes up in a bath tub. His arms slit all the way from wrists to mid-forearm. He can’t feel anything shoulder down, the water spilling over the edge of the tub is ice cold. He blinks owlishly and rests his head back on the edge of the tub.

(What the fuck happened?)

‘You got drunk.’

(....Truly?)

‘ Absolutely.’

Richie wrinkles his brows in though. His fingers twitch- not by his own will- and more blood sluggishly spills into the water.

(But....how?)

‘...’

Commotion picks up beyond the bathroom door- two voices, quiet, and calling. Their footsteps build up to the closed door and a knock vibrates against the old wood.

“Richie? Mike’s getting angsty. It’s been over fifteen minutes, you okay in there?”

(Eddie...)

The name won’t leave his tongue.

Silence- too uncomfortable for his taste- until, another voice shakes his ear drums.

“Richie? Are...are you okay?..Please answer...?” 

(Stan.)

He sounds on the border of a panic attack. Feet shuffle outside the door and all Richie does is watch the shadows dance.

Their whispers are full of fear.

“Eddie...I don’t know...who else would be...get Mike..”

Footsteps, light and fast, fade off. The palm of a hand bangs against the door.

“Richie, ‘Chee? Trash mouth? Honey? Please, if you’re okay, say something, please, I’m freaking out- oh my god, oh my god.”

Richie swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, his tongue goes dry.

The door stills shakes, and knob rattles, as more frantic footsteps pile up outside the door- shadows dancing widely in the soft yellow light behind the door.

“Oh my god oh my god- please, no- not him.”

“Richie? Honey? What’s going on?”

“Open the door, Richie, please.”

“Stan- Stan- calm down, oh god, Richie!?”

“R-rich? Hey, answer us!”

“Stan, it’s okay, he’s okay- we’re gonna be okay- stand back.”

The first shadow steps aside and another- one much more bigger and wide- fills its place.

Richie’s eyes drop halfway and fingers reach out to the door without feeling.

(Mike....)

A thundering boom, the door rattles, voices arguing frantically and it all blends together in a perfect mess.

(What...what’s going on?)

‘Goodbye, Richie.’

(...huh?..wait-)

A pop echos. in his ears and the pressure behind his eyes is suddenly gone- leaving behind a tight,deflating- red- balloon. His head slumps- limp and heavy- over the bath tub side.

He’s tried.

The bathroom door rattles louder.

One 

Two 

Three 

Four times 

The wood by the knob splinters off- muffled shouts behind the door scream his name.

Richie feels himself start to slip off and, maybe he imagined it- through the heavy haze of blood loss and alcohol- but the door seems to fly of its hinges- smacking loudly against the wall, no doubt leaving a hole behind- and six blurry figures pile in.

A women starts to scream and cry and the sound of someone retching off to the side helps lull Richie to sleep.

Everyone is screaming.

The bath tub water level starts to drain out, but it’s still cold- maybe even colder than before- and he shivers.  
Something white, warm, and fluffy wraps around both his arms.  
Strong hands pushing down on the cuts like no tomorrow.

(...maybe he’s dying?)

Someone blubbers. “Don’t fucking die on me you fucking, stupid, asshole! Please!” 

One figure stands over him- dark, curly hair- it’s warm hands cup his face.  
Tears shine down its face and red lips pop in contrast of the pale, pale skin.

( oh baby..)

Richie smiles- the figure shakes with a hard, sickening, sob- and his world goes black.

Soon after, the townhouse is bathed in red and blue lights. Paramedics rush through the doors with a stretcher, then rush back out again just as fast.  
A siren rings through the air, and an ambulance pulls out of the parking lot, followed closely by a black SUV.

They both fade into the night within seconds....

In the sewer, a clown laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so inactive- I have a lot of unfinished shorts to finish and a chapter 3 to get started on- finals kicked my ass.
> 
> Hope you don’t hate me and enjoyed this trash!
> 
> Leave a comment, if you want to, and have a good day!


	6. A library scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had this in drafts for a while now- was supposed to be a Richie/Mike fic but, idk anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All spelling mistakes are my own dumbass fault! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Henry Bowers was a disgusting human being. With no noticeably good features or personality to him he was easily abandoned by even the most humble people- who feared their lives just standing by the boy- and was labeled ‘to be weary of’ by every student in Derry High( expect for his gang of goons but, of course, they feared him just as much.) who had ever heard his name or suffered at the end of his sharp knuckle punches.

His crooked, chipped tooth, smile was a solid imprint in the nightmares of many kids who had been so unfortunate enough to- somehow- infuriate the bullies stroke of a match temper. Resulting in multiple cases of kids returning home that school day with fewer teeth and, sometimes, even fewer brain cells.Leading to the parents growing slightly, not at all how a parent should react to their child getting hurt, ticked off and asking the bigger boy- at maybe a school Christmas party or mandatory event- why he does it.

‘They never learn.’ Is Henry’s only reply. It’s not a good explanation, nor is it a just cause for the actions he ignites, and the way he always said it, with his sewer rat faced sneer, could leave a chill down anyone’s spine.  
The parents stop caring.

Richie had been a common costumer of Henry’s- being a loser ‘n all- and just knew how much trauma the boy could inflict on one person in just the matter of seconds. But that didn’t stop him then...and it sure as hell didn’t stop him now.

The need to meet Mike at the library was not a personally picked option- no, Richie would of left Derry that very second had it been his own decision- but more of a feeling. A very strong pull to his conscious that made his spine feel like it was dipped in a tub of ice. The comedian had no clue as to why he went the library as he did but, what else was he to do? 

His legs had refused to walk south. So he went.

Richie just didn’t expect he’d be waking straight into trouble.

Big trouble.

Henry Bowers. Out of the asylum, covered in dirt, missing teeth and still with that same fucking mullet from ‘98...was about to kill the very kid the losers and Richie had saved all those years ago. A sharp, silver, knife- maybe even the same one Bowers used on Ben- was positioned just above his heart, only being pushed back from sinking into Mike’s chest by the man himself. 

(But his wrists were hurting- he wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer.)

Richie didn’t know what to do. There were no rocks, or Losers, for that matter, to help him now.

He would have be brave for one god damn second of his life- be strong and selfless...just this once..For Mike, for Stan, for Eddie and for himself....

They needed each other- to kill the clown and to live- and, by god, Richie would not let some mullet wearing asshole from high school get in the way of that.

(Of his happy ending.)

An axe in a nearby exhibit stuck out in the corner of Richie’s eye- but his vision has always been shit- and he walked right past it.

(You fucking idiot.)

Mike was sweating- very much so- the knife that shook between his grip began to ever so slightly sink down. Henry smiled and bit his tongue-crazed eyes laughing at the way Mike’s strength began to leave him....till the knife was just pricking at his skin.

(But a bit of blood couldn’t hurt anyone...could it?)

‘He tells me you’re a mad man, Mikey boy.’ Henry cackles. Drips of disgusting, salty, sweat mixing with Mikes own.   
It smells like shit, but Mike grits his teeth.

Richie takes a step forward- on the tips of his toes- and then freezes.

(You’re not insane.)

Henry sticks out his tongue. ‘He tells me you’ve gone insane! Haha! And, you have, haven’t you? Mike! You’ve stayed in this little town for years! Fucking years! And for what? To die? To die by my hand because you weren’t strong enough?’ Henry fully leans down onto the knife as Mikes strength slowly leaves with every word.   
His arms shake uncontrollably and Richie walks, flat footed, from the library counter to Henry’s left.

The man doesn’t see him.

Henry takes a breath- Richie crouches, ready to pounce- and licks his lips.

‘You’re a fucking mad Man, Mikey. You’ve failed your friends- yourself- and this town,’ He leans down, mouth just inches from Mikes ear, and Richie clenched his fists.

‘You were always meant to die, alone, Mikey...you were always meant to go insane- it’s what he told me- it’s your time to suffer...you fucking pussy fuck.’ Henry bites the last word out with spit flying from his tongue and heaves himself onto the handle on the knife just as the unsuspecting comedian rushes him.

(Not today you fucking sewer rat.)

Mike screams.

And Richie sees red.

He sacks the mullet man off of Mike the second the knife scrapes his friends forearm- luckily, from what Richie could of seen in those two seconds he tackled Henry, mike was fine. Tired, sweaty and a little bruised...but fine.

The knife goes flying out of Henry’s hand and clangs down- somewhere- against a nearby bookshelf.

Blood trickles down Mike’s arm like melted sugar poured right out of the pot.

(No.)

Richie wails on Henry- fucking bitch- with nothing but the wrath of 27 years full of repressed hate and anger. His teeth  
clenched into a scowl dripping with sweat, drool and blood- he had bit his tongue- that mixed with the mess that was, Henry’s face, below him.

More teeth missing, crooked nose and a swollen eye....maybe a fractured cheek bone...possibly.

(Richie wasn’t that strong.)

But the asshole laughed.

Henry was being beat to shit- by the same kid he called prissy names his entire childhood- and was fucking laughing about it. Fucking full belly laugher that vibrated against Richie ass- cause he was sitting down on the guy- and nearly threw him off.

(What a fucking psychopath.)

Richie clenched his fist- finger nails digging into his bloody palm- arms shaking, and uses all hes’ got to deliver the last- not fatal- blow.

“Goodnight, you fucking rat ass bitch!”

His knuckles explode in pain...and Henry’s broke nose breaks even more- making Richie wince at the feel of bone grinding down on bone from beneath his knuckles.

(But, hey, Richie was doing him a favour, free nose job.)

But the laughing disappears, and the bully beneath Richie- straddled by his thighs- slumps into a puddle of blood and spit. His chest rises shakily- blood spilling out of a knife wound in his chest- weird- but does not stir.

It’s over.

Richie lets loose a breath he had not known he was holding and slid off the mans chest. His heart pounding and lungs pushing harshly against his ribs.  
Mike watches him, quietly. Left hand wrapped tightly around his right wrist and settled on his chest- the throbbing fingers sending pins and needles up his spine at the beat of his racing heart.

‘He was too old for this.’

Richie was too old for this shit.

His back ached, same with his knuckles, and popped loudly as he settled himself on the ground- body lying flat directly beside the unconscious Henry.

The sight of the bullies chest rising out of the corner of Richie’s eye made the comedian shudder a breath.

(He really should of just killed him- to be honest...it would of done a lot of good.)

But Richie isn’t like Henry. He’s not a murderer, not a bad person- sometimes- and he knows Henry might deserve a lot of things, but escaping punishment with death is not one of them.

Even if Richie’s the one to do it.

————-  
(This was supposed to be the TRUE ending but, I couldn’t get the words down how I liked them so, here’s this.)

The axe sinks into the back of Henry’s head, like it was being used to chop wood. Blood squirted from the crease it made. Flying onto nearby books and shelves with unwanted stains, and chunks of the skull peaked out from beyond the males hair.

He died standing.

Mike didn’t even wait for the body to fall before he, himself, was failing on his knees beside his Injured friend.   
Hands shakily extending out to cup Richie’s unshaven cheeks.

Dark blood seeped into his jeans- mostly near his knee- and stained them a dark, crimson red. Mikes face scrunched up at the sight. He placed his hand on the knife wound entry just above Richie’s breast and pushed down.   
Blood pushed through is fingers, and there was to familiar thrums of a heart beat beneath them.

He whimpered in defeat.

(No, no, no, no- please...go back in, go back in, please..)

Mike- as frigid tears roll down his model cheeks- presses two fingers to his lips, kissing them, gently, before placing both fingers into Richie’s cold, dead, ones. His eyes squeeze shut at the dry chapped skin beneath his touch. 

It was the closest thing to a kiss he was ever going to get.

Mike sobbed so hard at the thought he nearly felt like blacking out. To escape this...stupid fucking dream- is has to be a dream- and wake up in his bed....His fingers faintly brush across the bone of Richie’s cheek. Touch desperately searching out for the slightest flinch, twitch, of a muscle...maybe even the vibrations of some stupid quip about him being an angle to save him from damnation.

Just-...something.

But there was none.

(...please....no...it’s not real.)

The door to the library opens. Three sets of frantic footsteps echo behind him, but he doesn’t look back. Someone screams...

(Please...please don’t leave me....)

And Mike’s shoulders shake with heartbroken sobs.

(Without you, I’m alone.....)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this shitty, unfinished, short! I want to be able to write stories where all the losers are shipped differently, as the ships are becoming a little stale, and I want to try and spice it up! 
> 
> Leave a comment, if you want too! And have a good day!


	7. He’s a fucking whAT?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lift off of another idea I had in mind but, decided it was too stupid so- here ya go!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of Richie being a fluffy baby :) just because he’s so silly and acts dumb but- is just so pretty and smart
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy!

The taste of cheap townhouse alcohol did nothing to soothe Eddie’s shaky hands- as the liquid just splashed over the edge- Richie gave him too much-of the brown stained glass.   
It had been dusty and Eddie was sure he was going to get hives just from looking at the cup but, aside from the empty inhaler in his pocket, the drink was like a light weighted blanket over his subconscious. Keeping his mind from wandering a bit too far off from what was happening right now- reality- and what his paranoid ponders created- delusions.

( But what could reality do to help him about a demon clown that ate children? )

Eddie sighed and brought the glass to his lips- he still swears it will give him hives- and takes a hearty sip. 

The bubbly grape taste pops over his tongue- leaving behind pins and needles in his mouth- and swiftly flows down his throat and splashes into his stomach. Filing it’s emptiness- except for a few saltine crackers and a bit of cheese- like an echo in a big cave.   
Sound waves bounce off the sides of his stomach- buzzing, carbonated, bubbles popping like McDonalds sprite...but alcoholic- that make him feel bloated.

Not like how he feels when he drinks bourbon. Or, used to drink bourbon.

Eddie raised a concerning brow and clicked his tongue- the way he’s seen Gordon Ramsey do with his food- to think over the confusing flavor.   
Maybe the date was expired? I mean, looking around, no one seems to really be working at the townhouse...let alone keeping its alcohol stash supplied and up to date.

He place a cautious hand on his belly- fingers tingling at the bubbling sensation- and swallowed thickly.

‘Maybe I’m allergic?’

Richie, sitting across from Eddie, gave him a strange look- eyebrow quirked, frowning- before taking a sip of his own drink- which, looking at it, was not as full as Eddie’s own drink was- Adam’s apple bobbing sluggishly as the whole cup of alcohol was drowned in one go.

Truly, a terrible mistake.

Eddie watched in amused silence- two fingers rubbing circles along the bottom of his stomach to calm it- as Richie’s breathless face turned sour. His nose crinkled- as well the corners of his eyes while he squinted- and pink tongue stuck out between his set of, moderately, white teeth.   
An exaggerated gag following it.

Eddie rolled his eyes with a huff and shook his head in mock disappointment.

The other snarled at him- not angrily- and scrubbed the bare flesh of his tongue with the end of his jacket sleeve. Making Eddie wince in disgust.  
Only few- and I say, very few- would stoop to....THAT level of pathetic to rid their taste buds of whatever vile flavor they taste.

(Most sensible people drink water.)

The risk analyst sighed while resting his cheek on the palm of his hand- elbows digging uncomfortably into the shaved wood- and watched as the man across from him picked up the mysterious bottle of drink to read the label.

(Hopefully looking for an expiration date.)

He wasn’t...but Eddie already knew that.

Richie scowled, squinting, as he read the label on the back of the brown bottle. The white paper was stained with...hopefully, just alcohol and the black printed letters were slightly faded- likely due to leakage or...old age- and dust coated its bottom.

It was Eddie turn to scowl in disgust. How hard is it, really, to pick up a duster and use it? Really!   
Not.That.Hard.

Eddie- with his silent anger brewing- shifted in his seat- being slight weary of the potential butt splinters he might get through the haze of his germaphobic thoughts- eyes staring down at the bar with a thin mask of numbness to hide his worry.   
Not over Richie, or the drink...well, slightly over the drink but, more so over the uncleanliness of the townhouse than...anything else.

While Eddie thought, Richie stuck his big- fucking- nose right into the bottle and took a big sniff.

(Rumors say it all went straight to his brain!)

‘The fuck is this shit?’ Richie coughed, wiping the ends of his eyes with a- dirty- pointer finger. ‘Fucking poison?’ He set down the half full bottle- thick fingers leaving behind a fog of his own prints- and looked up at Eddie with a disgusted stare- bottom lip slightly curled over the top one. 

‘Am I wrong?’ He gestured to Eddie’s drink- the others eyes avoided looking at the appendage, as it was just a faded blur at the bottom of his vision- and coughed again.’It’s disgusting.’  
‘Makes me almost feel bad for pouring you so much...almost.’ Richie chuckled, crossing his arms to lay them in front of his chest on the bar. 

‘But, I feel like I’d be doing you a favor,’ Richie smirked- the left side of his face showing off a few teeth, while the right shook slightly. Eddie looked up at him confused.  
Richie scratched the back of his head.’Cause...I sincerely doubt that your wife, dear Myra, bless her soul, would allow you to drink any sort of ‘liquid fun’ in fear of ‘her precious Eddie’ getting sick, awww.’ Richie cooed at Eddie, voice slightly strained to a women’s frequency, as he pushed the offending bottle of liquid to the side.

Eddie- mindlessly- hums in agreement.

‘Fuckin’ poison...’ He mummelnd, repeating Richie’s first statement.

(Champagne in a bourbon bottle...of course. )

The whole drink tasted like a liquid phone.

He stuck out his tongue and gagged silently. If he had been hungry before- he sure wasn’t now.. The cheese was likely curdled in his stomach, by now.   
Thick and gooey, like milk after it’s been left in a hot room for too long, and shaped as an mush of cheese with mold on it.

Fucking- Ew.

Eddie pushes back his drink and, without looking up, talked to Richie as he played with the loose shaves of wood beneath his finger tips.

‘ This is all kinda fucked, man. Not the alcohol, even though it tastes like ass and might of been sitting here since 1989 but, all this weird shit that’s happening...like, yesterday, I had no fucking clue you, or the other losers, even existed! No idea! Then, I just get slapped with a wet fish and- poof! I remember that I used to have a clown as my bully in a town not even my ‘other friends’ knew was real! I mean, is t that-“ Eddie looks up during his ranting and stops short as the Richie-less figure behind the bar. 

Did that ass hole fucking leave? 

Eddie scrunches up his nose- lips curling down into a frown.” Oh haha, very funny, Rich!” He swivels around in his chair to face the commons room of the town house. Looking around for the sign of the trash mouth- he doesn’t see him- and yells in the direction of the stairs.  
“ A real ducking comedian, Rich! The funniest guy I know!”

Eddie slaps his knee- mocking laughter- and pushes himself off the stool.” I try to have a really heart to heart with you and- you mother fucker- you just gotta make a joke pot of it!” The ground shakes violently as Eddie stomps his foot- and he immediately remembers never to do it again.

“ well,” He heads to the part of the bar not blocked off my a wall.” Guess I’ll just enjoy this ‘amazing alcohol’ all by myself!” He eyes the stairs for any sign of the Trashmouth.

His heart wains. “Without you!” He confirms, believing it would trick the man child into abandoning his silly game.   
It was to no avail.

Eddie’s bottom lip puffed out the same time his shoulders deflated. His eyes were tired, and brain hurt from all the chaotic and colorful events that seemed to be the most actions he’s had in months-...not that action.  
Working out. 

..yeah.

Myra won’t even let him look at a gym weight without smothering his hands with hand sanitizer.   
And, even if he does look at it, she thinks he’s taking steroids.

Eddie ponders, as he drifts a finger from one bottle of alcohol to another, why he decided to marry a woman like her....like his mother.

It obviously had something to do with the clown, yes...but he just couldn’t accept that it was the clowns control that kept Eddie in IT’s grasp.

He was weak- he knew it- that was why.

Eddie found and old bottle of whiskey and decided- fuck it- to get wasted right then and there.

( cause he’s weak. He hasn’t had a single sip of alcohol since college...until now.)

The glass reflected Eddie’s emotionless face and he twisted it in his hands.Checking the label- of course.

He sighed deeply and set the bottle on the counter with a hard ‘clank’ and hung his head in shame.

‘ I’m fucking disgusting...’ Eddie whispered to himself, sniffing once- whipping his nose- and poured himself a heaping glass of whiskey.

It burned the inside of his nose hairs just pouring it out. His eyes watered and he coughed while waving a hand in front of his stinging nose.  
“Aw, shit!” Eddie pushes away the drink, setting the glass down with little care- somehow not spilling a single drop.”That shits fucking strong! Holy hell!” He whoops, hitting his back against the shelves of alcohol, throwing his arm around his face. 

“ Disgusting!” A barking cough rattles his lungs and he stomps away from the drink and exits the bar with his jacket flapping behind him.” I hate this place, I hate this state, I hate my life....my wife- fuck!” He collapses into a common room chair, completely unbothered by the fact it might be full of fleas, and rest his sulking head against a scared palm.   
It’s very vidid to him how he got it...and that just angers him more.

He clenches his fist and lets it limply fall onto his stomach.” Fuck clowns.” He spits pointedly, the arm thrown over his arm chair scratching at the loose threads.

A clock on the wall ticks every second. Echoing like a scream in a cave that spikes from an endangered woman that turns out to be an accomplice. Her spiky red nails poke into his head like the searing bite of a spider.

It’s boring....even with the impending doom of dying that approaches every second.

His lungs fill up with cold air, back curving into a tight c. The sigh that leaves his chest is brooding and tired. Eddie taps his foot against the cheap carpet while humming. 

“ Hey, where’d the dog come from?”

Eddie jumps up from his seat- not admitting he was frightened by Ben’s sudden question but, okay, yeah. He was scared- to turn and face the architect. 

He raises a brow at the black and white border collie. It’s mouth turned up into a happy smile, tongue stuck out, and tail wagging quickly at the way Ben’s strong hands scratch behind its ears.  
The door to the townhouse was wide open, that’s probably how it got in but, Eddie would of know if the dog had entered in the first place. 

He is allergic to them, after all.

Eddie takes a step back while crossing his arms, and gags to himself as the dog hops up on Ben’s jean clad knees and gives the man a wet lick.

Ben laughs joyously and ruffles the dogs head. Eddie feels sick.

“ He’s a cutie, isn’t he Eddie?” Ben turns to his friend, unaware of his fear of the dog, and scratches at the pups neck with both hands.” Wonder if his owner has a room here.” 

Eddie narrows his eyes- taking another step back as the dogs familiar brown eyes seem to stare into his soul.   
It’s probably a trick.

“ I don’t know but, I think we should put the dog outside.” He points strictly to the open door.” I’m allergic to dogs and lords knows where the dumbs things been! It could of just rolled in its own piss, for all we know!”

Ben frowns and stands up- giving the dog one final pat- and hides his hands in deep pockets.” That’s not very nice to say, Eddie. Border collies are a smart breed- they heard sheep and stuff like that.” Ben shrugs his shoulders, looking down at the smiling animal with a matching grin.  
“Plus, he’s very well behaved. The owner definitely has to be around somewhere. I about any respectable dog owner would let such a beautiful dog like this one wander away.” 

The dog barks happily and ticks around on sharp nails in circles around Ben’s legs. He jumps once, tail wagging, and sits on the wooden floor while licking his black snout.   
Fluffy but wiggling in suppresses excitement. 

Eddie sticks out his tongue.” Ive checked the guest book. We’re the only five people dumb enough to stay in this dump.”He gestures to the rotting wood decor.” And, even if someone else was here, I sincerely doubt that any ‘respectable dog owners’ would be allowed to have one of the walking disease in this dumb, I mean just- just look at it!” 

Ben follows Eddie’s accusing finger down to the dog. He raises a brow and stares back at Eddie with a blank look, as if to say, ‘really?’.

The dog’s brown eyes had grown wide, and shinny. Puppy dogs eyes that just screamed blind love and admiration for which ever sap gave him the time of day.   
A dumb dog that trusted too much.

He was adorable.

Eddie growls and crosses his arms. A grumble of curses whispered under his breath as Bill and Beverly both came thumping down the steps together. Their faces red and hands strictly hidden behind them.

Ben frowns and the dog rubs its face against his pants with an unhappy whimper.

Beverly’s eyes light up.” Is that a dog! Aw, he’s so cute!” She skips over to them with a big smile and kneels in front of the animal.” Where’d you find them? He’s so pretty!” Beverly scratches at the dogs fluffy neck, earning a few licks to the face and happy whimpers as his butt wiggles back and forth.

Eddie refuses to believe it but, it is...really adorable.

Ben laughs and looks over Beverly to make eye contact with Bill. No angry tension radiates between them.

“ Just found him wandering down here. I thought he was another guests but, there’s no one else here.” Beverly looks up at Ben, interested. He smiles at her and scratches the back of his head.”The door was open so, I guess that’s how he got in.” 

Bill nods to himself and stands beside Ben, making no eye contact.” Duh-does he have ah t-tag?” 

Beverly feels around the dogs neck, careful not to get her finger nails caught in the small knot is the animals long haired coat, and nearly jumps at the feel of a thick leather band hidden beneath the fur.  
She smiles.” Found it.” And searches the collar for a metal dog tag.

“His fur was covering it up- it’s so long. If we do find the owner of this baby we should get him an appointment to-“ She finds the yellow shinny dog tag and freezes. Green eyes widening at the engraving.

She covers her mouth with a gasp and stands up, looking frantically between Bill and Ben.

Eddie backs up from her. The fear radiating from her body spiking an anxiety within his own.   
He knew something was up with that stupid animal.

Ben steps back from the dog just as Bill gets in front of Beverly. His body protecting her from its view as he raises a Bootes foot, ready to kick the animal if needed too.

He stares down at the dog with profound hatred.” Wuh-what’d it say, B-Bev?” He steps back and forces her too as well.” Is it the c-clown? What’d it s-say?”

Ben looks at his frightened love over Bills shoulder. His heart aching at her pale expression and shocked eyes.

“ Bev?” He asks gently, gaining her attention.” What did it say...was it..” He trails off, half not knowing what he thinks t was and, half not wanting to.

Beverly tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. Eyes shaking in fright as the dog lowered its head, almost as scared as her, and hides its muzzle under oversized paws.  
It makes her eyes soften.

She pushes Bill aside- throwing him a glare when he goes to stop her- and hesitantly kneels down by the ansonsten ears.

Eddie thinks she’s crazy and sucks in a quick breathe of air.

Beverly pats the animals head, flinching back as the dog does the same, and them fully rests her hands in the soft fur of its neck.

Ben takes it as a good sign and steps forward, but not too close. 

“Bev..”

“...”

“ What’s wrong?”

The dog beneath her finger whimpers and she bites her lip.  
Bill eyes Ben with a questioning look and then stares at Beverly’s back.

Again, he asks softly.” Bev...Wuh-what did it say?” His stutter settles, somewhat.

Beverly brushes her fingers through the dogs ears and, without looking up at any of them, whispers.

“ It’s Richie.”

Which, in turn, promptly leads to Eddie asking-

“Its fucking what?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welll- this really wasn’t ANGST per say but,...I liked it either way:) 
> 
> I hope you did too! Thanks for reading, leave a comment if you want too and have a good one :))!!!


End file.
